


Supporting Character

by fifrose



Series: The Losers [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Losers Club is one big family, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempts, The stenbrough is kinda minor here, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, VERy STRONG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-19 12:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifrose/pseuds/fifrose
Summary: Stanley Uris has never been in the spotlight. In fact, he doesn’t like it. When you’re in the spotlight, people notice things that they don’t see in the dark.





	1. It’s Still Dark, Honey.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning for these things (there’s a lot!)
> 
> -Suicide Attempts  
> -Suicidal Thoughts  
> -Self-Harm  
> -Paranoia and Anxiety  
> -Underage Drinking  
> -Underage Smoking
> 
> I would have included OCD in this list, but I’m not really sure how to write for it and I don’t want to offend anybody.

Stanley Uris was never in the spotlight. He actually hated it with a burning passion, to be completely honest. You see, when you’re in the spotlight, people notice things that they don’t see in the dark. But Stanley sees everything. _Well,_ that sounded kinda weird. It’s more that he’s very observant.

For instance, Richie seems to be an asshole when you first meet him, but Stan knows that  every joke is another layer over his heart. Richie is actually very lovable, and while he isn’t great with feelings, he’s always there to talk. Stan also knows that Richie’s parents are _absolute fucking pricks,_ and he’s sure that Richie would agree, but be very confused on how Stan knows it, since they’ve never actually been to his house. 

See? Stan knows a lot.

Unfortunately, Stan also isn’t great with feelings. Nobody in his family was. This often leads to bottling up his emotions until they burst. Except, he doesn’t have anybody to burst to. There’s no way in _hell_ that he would rant to the Losers’ Club. His parents are always out, doing something or whatever. He’s not sure that his parents even know he exists. It’s alright, though, Stan can manage on his own. 

Except that he can’t. 

But Stan has the family trait of being stubborn, so he forces himself to manage. 

Except he’s terrible at it.

Ever since the IT situation, life has gotten much harder. 

The five minutes of the Losers’ Club acknowledging that what they did was shitty were great, but then they went right back to fighting that little shit. 

And sure, it sounds petty, but nobody ever asks how _he’s doing._ That’s probably all it would take for him to spill everything, but of course, no ever fucking asks. 

He doesn’t tell anybody that he sees The Lady everytime he passes a mirror, everytime he closes his eyes, and hears her shitty flute playing at the late times of night. 

Nobody notices when he digs his nails into his palm until his hand has bleeding bloody crescent moons, nobody notices when he retreats to the bathroom, and has a _fucking panic attack_ on the disgusting bathroom floor. Nobody notices how Stan has been wearing long sleeves exclusively lately.

Stan prefers to keep it that way. 

During the hard nights, instead of being in his home alone, he steals some of his parent’s vodka and cigarettes and rides on his bike to the quarry. He sits there for hours, sometimes wishing the quarry was higher. 

Soon, he starts making excuses to not tell them anything. He’s just a burden. Everybody just wants this shit to stop, so why bring them into this? 

But he fucked that up, like always. 

* * *

It all started with an innocent day off of school. It was a Monday and Stan didn’t feel like going to school at all, so? He just took one day off, no big deal, right?

If you knew what happened when he was alone, it was.

Stan took a long drag of his- er, his father’s cigarette.  It calmed his nerves while also making his anxiety spritz. He kinda liked it. 

In the other hand, he held a rusty, slightly dull, razor inbetween his finger. _You shouldn’t use that, Stan! You’ll get an infection! Do you know that infections are 85% more likely than you think?_ He could hear Eddie’s voice already. He snorted, despite himself.

With one swift motion and the holding of his breath, he slashed himself on the forearm. 

It was a hobby. 

One messy hobby, though. 

The blood started flowing out.

Blood was sorta fascinating. Stan always wondered what his looked like in mass amounts. It was a morbid thought, but then again, wasn’t this whole thing morbid?

He kept going, each line another self-deprecating thought.

_deadweight_

_fucking flamer_

_It was doing them a favor._

_Making that 7 a nice, even 6._

_You make it complicated_

_you’ll be dead by 17, and you know it._

_just do it_

Stan pulled his hand back to look at his ‘work’. He grimaced before using his free hand to grab his phone and play some music. He clicked the button and it filled his ears.

**Maybe I’m not like your friends**

**sobbing in your closet**

**with your clothes on again**

Stan took another drag of the cigarette.

Then he set back to work on his wrists.

This ugly work, the only thing that seems to make him feel something. Something other than anxiety. It helps him feel the pain he expects. It’s better when he’s drunk, but that’s a luxury. 

**A heaviness of higher order**

**You kept collapsing across the border**

Stan set his blade over his wrist. It was right over his wrist, but he liked playing life. It didn’t matter whether he lived or died, did it? He was just another plaything for It, who was definitely still alive, by the way.

Why else was he seeing that fucking flute lady everywhere?

It was better for him to realize this sooner rather than later. 

**he's the kind of high**

**where he's not talking a lot** **  
**

**underneath the lowlights  
**

**in the freezing cold garage**

_Right?_

_your friends can manage without you_

_They could probably do better without you_

_no probably_

_they would do better without you._

_you’re just there most of the time_

_because you have no one else_

_isnt that right?_

_it would be really easy. Just do it_

_you peaked at 12 or 11._

_That damn clown did this._

_He made you plummet._

_He made you like this._

_why bother living in a world when It is in it as well?_

_if you feel this bad now, imagine when you’re older and it hasn’t gone away._

BRRING BRRING! Stan’s phone went off. It was Bill.

 

Stan sliced into his wrist in surprise and yelped.

 

He looked down at his wrist. It was too far, too close to the bone. He wasn’t gonna survive this.

_How sad is that? The only person that makes you feel any emotion is the person who kills you._

“Shut up.” Stan hissed through clenched teeth. The pain was so unbearable that he found himself wishing it was over and done with already. There was no time, he had to do something, write somewhere.

He grabbed his phone in sheer panic and answered Bill’s call, which was still going during this whole series of events.

”H-hey, Stan. Is e-everything alright? You d-did-“ Bill was cut off.

”I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.” Stan’s breathing was becoming uneven now, and he knew he was close. It was too late. _Too late._

“Stan? A-are you alright? W-what’s going on? I’m kinda n-ne-“

“It’s too late. I love you guys. Take a bullet for you anytime. Even though you probably wouldn’t for me. It’s okay, though! I wouldn’t for me either. Oh geez, I’m making it sound bad. I mean, more like-“ Stan paused to take a breath and pull his bloody arm away from his body, which was now completely covered in blood. Not expecting pain from this simple action, he yelled in surprise. 

“S-Stan, I’m coming over.” 

Stan took a deep breath. 

“Don’t. I don’t want you to see it. Just let it be.” 

Bill hung up. 

_Bill fucking hung up._

Stan could feel his grip on reality going loose. 

He laid down on his bloody bed. Stan really didn’t want Bill or anyone to see this. But it was too late, just like many other things in his life. 

The music on his phone turned on again to play the ending notes of the song.

**I thought you talked to the reporter**

**she had a polka dot recorder**

Stan heard some dings from his phone underneath the music, most likely from the groupchat after Bill said what happened.

He closed his eyes. 

He realized how bad his bedroom would look once they came to inspect the body. There were two empty vodka bottles on his night stand. A pack of cigarettes gracing his dresser. And blood everywhere. 

It was who he really was, underneath that preppy, sarcastic vibe. They just didn’t see it. 

 

Now they’d see everything laid out in the open. 

 

What a fucking mess. 

 

He opened his eyes briefly, eyelids heavy. He saw her. 

Again. 

_Just give it up, you won. I’m dead._

He thought since he couldn’t speak. 

What a sad last thought. 

 

The whole time, his phone was dinging urgently. The sings that would have proven to Stan that he was loved so dearly. The dings that would have shown that they actually did notice him have a panic attack in the bathroom, they just didn’t know how to approach the topic. The dings that said that the Losers did notice that Stan only wear sweaters anymore, but they weren’t sure if it was just a style change or something serious. 

But, alas, Stan was in his own head, the only company his mind. 


	2. The Lights Are On, Darling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill discovers things were not so picturesque.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as last time. I also made up a street address for him, since it doesn’t mention it anywhere.

Stan was the definition of perfect, by Bill’s standards. 

Sure, it sounded cheesy, but was there anything about the boy that wasn’t admirable?

He had good grades, a snappy sense of humor, super curly hair, and his trademark khakis and polo. All his good traits didn’t make him boring, either. He was a catch.

And that was why Bill was feeling upset today.

Bill knew that Stan would find a girlfriend, and fast. And to any normal person, that would sound like a good thing, but to Bill, it was a nightmare.

Bill didn’t know what was wrong with himself. He _shouldn’t_ feel like this. It was _wrong,_ and _possessive,_ and......

_gay._

Bill wanted punch himself in the face just for _thinking_ that.

_Eddie is gay, Richie is gay_

_its normal._

_screw who you want_

_thats what Richie would say, probably._

_Maybe you’re gay._

_But you like girls too?_

_what a fucking mess._

_I wish Bev was here, she would know what to say._

Bill was shook from his thoughts by Richie, who was currently telling some stupid joke and waiting for a high five or something. 

Bill really couldn’t be bothered to care. Stan wasn’t there.

Stan was never _not_ there. He was always the homework picker-upper, since he was always present. He wrote down notes, gave missed homework, and played doctor to the Loser’s Club on more than one occasion. Even if he was sick, his father would have made him go. 

“D-do you t-think something’s u-up with S-Stan? H-he’s not here t-today.” Bill muttered absentmindedly. He knew that they had no answers, and would only tell him to stop being so paranoid.

”Billiam, don’t be so worried about your boyf, I’m sure he’ll turn up tomorrow.” Richie’s obnoxious tone countered Bill’s wavy anxious one.

”B-beep, beep, R-Richie.” Bill’s face turned pomegranate red, and he quickly turned away from the group. Richie and Eddie promptly went back to flirting (disgustingly), Mike and Ben went back to discussing some football shit that Bill couldn’t care less about. This would usually be the time that Bill talked to...

_Aw man.._

“H-how am I s-supposed to s-survive Mrs. E-Everett’s class without h-him?” Bill huffed and walked away from the group.

Behind him, Richie turned to Eddie.

”He’s right, ya know? The woman is like the wicked witch of the west’s even uglier and meaner sister.” 

* * *

 

It was 5:00 PM when the phone call came. 

That _fucking_ phone call. 

The one that made Bill have the worst panic attack that he’s had in years? The one that made Bill hop on his bike at lightning speed? The one that made him cry, fearing that he would be too late?

Yeah, that one.

Bill ran out of his house, ignoring his mothers calls. He could explain later, and she would understand. If not, it didn’t matter. 

He quickly took his bike out, and just started _riding._  

The tears came.

Bill couldn’t properly feel them. He was going so fast that they went behind his head and slightly touched his cheekbone, like a bullet grazing the flesh of it’s would-be victim. 

He felt it coming like a tidal wave. 

The dread, anxiety, and overthinking combined into one _shitty_ tidal wave and threatened to wipe out Bill. That wipe out would leave Bill scattered on the seafloor, whilst Stan was heading farther, and farther out to sea. 

Where he would drown.

Bill almost didn’t realize that he was directly infront of Stan’s house until he saw the birds bath. 

Climbing off his bike seemed difficult, which made Bill more frustrated. Finally, he ditched it on the street, not caring about the frequent cars passing through. That problem would have to wait until later.

He didn’t bother knocking, and just barged in. He also didn’t bother calling Stan’s name. 

Bill looked around. It seemed perfect. Almost too perfect, like Stan had a panic attack and cleaned things to calm him down

_Stan told you about that a while ago, you shouldn’t remember that?_

_guess you are obsessed_

Bill pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He trudged upstairs, purposefully making his footsteps as heavy as he could. Maybe it would wake Stan up?

That was not the case. 

He found Stan’s door. 

It smelled of iron.

He clicked the door open, and slowly 

_Slowly_

_slowly_

Opened it to reveal

**Everything.**

Stan was lying in a huddled mass on the floor, one hand covering his eyes, as if to protect them from the horrific sight that was this room. 

There was _blood everywhere._

It stuck to Stan like water, which made Bill realize that that was Stan’s blood.

_that damned clown put the concrete shoes on Stan, but Stan was the one who jumped into the ocean._

Bill grabbed Stan’s phone. It was slightly bloody, but it still worked.

”911, what’s your emergency?”

”P-Please, h-help, m-my f-f-f-f” Bill couldn’t get the word friend out.

”m-my boyfriend tried to k-kill himself. There’s b-blood everywhere.” The word boyfriend ran like butter off his tongue.

”What’s your address?”

”Uh, 98 W-Willow Street, b-big White H-House.”

”We’re on our way.”

Bill kneeled next to Stan, in all his blood. 

Time to call the gang, I guess.

Bill looked for the groupchat on Stan’s phone. 

**satan: hey this is bill. this is urgent, come to Stan’s house immediately**

**bitch: hey woah what happened**

**definitely not Eds: is something wrong??**

**benjamin: is he ok?**

**theres a bee?: I’m on my way**

Bill put the phone away. 

He was covered in blood,

_Stan’s blood,_

_from this angle, you could see the cuts_

_dont look_

_how could he feel this way?_

_you didn’t know, you fucking Monster_

_you did nothing_

Bill could make out people rushing around him.

there were red and blue lights flashing

loud noises.

then suddenly,

A heavy blanket fell on his back. The weight was comforting. It pulled Bill out of his trance.

He looked to the others.

Richie’s face was paler than it had ever been and he looked blankly at the still bloody spot where Stan was laying before.

Eddie was having a panic attack while Mike comforted him since Richie seemed to be having his own sort of panic attack. 

Ben was crying, head in hands. 

Actually, they were all crying. 

Bill was sitting on the floor, covered in blood. 

Bill wanted to scream, punch someone, about how unfair this was. 

_Stan was loved._

_stan was so so so loved._

_if he dies then I die_

_I don’t care_

_what will matter anymore then?_

_i have to tell him that I love him._

_who fucking cares what happens_

_i should have seen the signs_

_im either a fucking idiot or a fucking monster._

“Bill?” Richie put his hand on Bill’s shoulder.

_Had he said that all aloud?_

“It’s not your fault, dude. It’s gonna be okay, alright?” Richie slightly hovered next to him, not kneeling in the blood.

It seemed like Richie was trying to reassure himself more than Bill.

how  could this happen?

the boy that Bill loved so much believed nobody loved him

And Stan told nobody about how he felt.

because he believed that it would _inconvenience_ them?

perhaps he took his bird watching lessons too far.

”In order to see the birds, one must become part of the silence.”


	3. Our Eyes Have Adjusted, Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warning* you will cry, then laugh, then cry.

What the fuck just happened?

Thirty minutes ago, Eddie and Richie were discussing their favorite _color_  and why.

Now? 

Now, they were sitting in the waiting room of a hospital to see if one of their best friends was dead by his own hand. 

_He isn’t._

_dont think about that._

When Stan woke up, Richie had a fuckton of answers for each question or doubt that Stan would throw at him. 

_I’m prepared._

Eddie’s leg bounced nervously next to him, stirring him from his thoughts.

Richie took a glance around the waiting room.

Bill, sat cold and blank looking across from Richie. He still had the blanket from the paramedics on him. He never took off his bloody clothes.

Mike had his hands covering his mouth, resting his elbows on the tops of his legs. He was looking nervously at Bill. 

Ben was sitting next to Mike, and he bit his lip anxiously.

Eddie was calming down after his panic attack. Richie felt like a shit boyfriend for not even attempting to help him. 

And then there was Richie.

Richie was sitting in a similar stance to Mike’s.

He wondered how his friend group would ever recover. 

He wondered if Stan even thought twice about it. 

He wondered if Stan just fucking had enough.

He wondered if that fucking clown pushed him to do it. 

Stan had definitely been acting different for the last few months, Richie would say. 

He had been wearing dark colored sweaters, and every once in a while, a bandage would poke out of the cuff. 

That, in and of itself, was nerve wracking. 

Stan had been quieter and less willing to refute Richie’s jokes, which Richie produced endlessly as a result, attempting to make Stan roll his eyes and make a killer comeback. Like he always did before.

_before_

Before that shitty clown, and the goddamn sewers, and the fucking red balloon bullshit. 

After the clown, Stan let go. 

Just, in general. 

There was always a sort of shadow surrounding Stan, even before the clown, but it never bothered him too bad.

He had once said to Richie that he sort of had anxiety. 

Richie could only imagine how bad that got when the clown was introduced.

About a half hour ago, when they all came in, nurses were rushing to and fro. Doctors were running everywhere. Richie was even fairly sure he heard them yell “Clear!” at one point, which was, frankly, terrifying to even imagine that was Stan. 

Now?

Now the hospital was quiet, and settling. Almost the same way old houses do, except you have to really listen to hear it’s creaking. 

Richie found himself inching his hand toward Eddie. 

He opened his palm, and Eddie gladly took it in his. 

The losers would put Stan back together just as gladly as Stan would help put back together one of them. 

* * *

 

_Clear!_

_He’s losing blood too quickly, we need a transplant and FAST!_

_is he waking up?_

_we need this room immediately!_

_teen boy, 16, suicide attempt_

_yes, he is from the Uris family._

_Mr. Uris? Yes, I know you’re busy, but your son-_

_what a selfish boy, doesn’t he know his parents care about him?_

_Carol, shut your fucking mouth_

_why, I never!_

_Stan?_

_Stan?_

_Stan?_

Stan jolted upright.

He was immediately hit with sterile. Just the fucking smell of chemicals that they use when you die to cover up the scent.

He fell back slowly, his headache more than just an ache, he would call it more of a tractor trailer repeatedly running over his head. In other words, it felt like he was being stabbed straight through the head.

Stan shut his eyes, and he allowed himself to be pushed backwards by hands. Who’s hands? He didn’t know that. 

The room was as bright as looking directly into the fucking sun itself. Couldn’t they have toned it down a bit?

”Ben, close the blinds, I think it’s too bright.” 

Who the fuck is that, and why can they tell exactly what I’m thinking?

A sudden darkness flooded the room outside his eyelids. 

Gradually, he opened his eyes. 

“Hoooooooooooooly shit.” 

Yeah, those were his first words after accidentally almost killing himself. 

No laugh, not even a chuckle. 

With a sigh, Stan opened his eyes fully and pushed his curly hair out of his face.

The Losers. 

Pain shot out of his wrist.

Stan’s hand flew to his wrist and he cringed as his fingers met the bandage.

”I know I’m being informal and you probably expect something from me right now, but can you _please_ get me the drugs?”

”U-uh, sure.”

Bill walked out of the room. 

Stan fell silent. No more witty one-liners from him.

”I’m sorry the first thing I said to you guys was holy shit.”

With a sniffle, Eddie nodded. “Those probably would’ve been my first words too, so it’s okay.” 

“I mean, I’m fucking sorry for a lot of things right about now, but I’m sure you get that.” Stan added, more foulmouthed in this moment then he had really ever been. Why now?

The nurse came in right at this moment. 

Stan didn’t even bother apologizing. Fuck you, random judgmental nurse lady.

With a permanent scowl, the nurse gave him some pills and some other shit. Honestly, Stan couldn’t be bothered to care. 

He stared at his friends with sad eyes. How could he explain this to them? He was just cutting himself, and then he got a bit jumpy and cut too deep. That sounded like a story that was made up on the spot. 

He almost let out a gasp as he remembered the _contents_ of his room. A pack of Camels cigarettes that he stole from his dad, some beer bottles, and the ole sorta-rusty kinda stained razor.

“Oh. Oh no.” Stan cringed after almost a full two minutes of silence. 

“Yeah, it was pretty bad.” That was Mike. 

“I don’t know what to say.” What the fuck was Stan supposed to say? Sorry didn’t mean shit. 

“I-I’m sorry.” Stan’s voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, betraying his emotions. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re good now.” The Losers club came together in a mass of hug. 

Losers always stick together. 

* * *

 

It had been two days, people came and went. His parents hadn’t bothered to check on him once, all he got was some lousy “Get Well Soon” card. He got some balloons from his neighbor, and flowers from his teacher. 

All that stuff couldn’t have mattered less.

All he really wanted was to be surrounded by family, and that family was the Losers. Not his blood family. Stan finally understood the meaning of that one phrase he read. 

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” 

In his case, however, the ‘blood’ was as thick as oatmeal, and the water was barely existent.

At the moment, he was watching Law And Order. A real classic. 

He even watched Dr. Phil this week. 

He was about to turn the TV off and take a nap when the door opened.

It was Bill. 

“H-hey, Stan. H-how are y-you doing?” Bill’s smile was clearly faked, and it was riddled with unspoken words. Some shit was gonna go down right now. 

“Hey Bill.” Stan returned a softer, but more realistic smile. It was still fake as hell though. 

Bill sat on the bed next to Stan, something he greatly appreciated. Most people who visited treated Stan like he was deadly sick, and contagious. 

“I w-wanted to t-talk t-to y-you,” Bill swallowed hard. “A-about this w-whole thing.” 

“Oh?”

“I-I’m really sorry. I s-s-should have n-n-n-n-“Bill’s stutter got worse as he got more frantic, and Stan eventually calmed him down by placing one hand on his arm. That did the trick.

”-noticed before.” 

“It’s not your fault. It’s just my fault for not saying anything. I’m sorry you had to see any of that. I was, in a bad place.” Stan smiled weakly, before taking his hand off Bill’s arm.

”D-don’t you remember m-my p-p-promise?” Bill held out his palm.

Stan took a second to register it as an offer to hold hands.

Stan slid his hand into Bill’s carefully. Meanwhile, his heart burst into flames and his brain brought on a massive wave of memories all at once.

_”Bill, if I slip and crack my head open, I swear to god!” Stan sweared as he stood near the edge._

_“Do you even believe in God?” Richie asked from where he was sitting._

_Choosing to ignore that dumbass remark, Stan looked to Bill for some type of reassurance._

_”D-don’t worry! I-I’ll jump w-w-with you. S-so, if you f-f-fall, I-I’ll catch you.” Bill offered this with a cheery smile._

_”Promise?”_

_”P-promise.”_

“I do remember that, Bill.” Stan’s smile was genuine this time, and so was Bill’s.

”It’s still t-true.” 

 

Losers are the best friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Song - house show by strange ranger


End file.
